Better The Devil You Know
by Hoshigumo
Summary: After a 200 year hiatus, Sanguine returns to Mundus, bent on creating mischief for the descendant of a dear friend from the past. Saving mankind wasn't originally part of his travel plans, but its like they always say: when life gives you lemons, you throw an orgy. Fem!DB x Sam/Sanguine. Rated T at present; will go up later for violence/adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Hi! Thanks for reading.

This is an ever-so-slightly AU version of Skyrim. Slightly. And I shouldn't spoil things now by saying precisely why, but some of the things I've changed are either because people have said they've wanted to be able to do them in-game, or because I think they fit despite bending some parts of lore just a teeny bit.

As far as characterizing Sanguine himself, I'm trying my best, but this is entirely how he sounds in my head, and may not be entirely cannon. Sanguine-specific lore was hard to find, but I'm using what I did find. If you have anything to add, speak up! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the ride.

* * *

Evenings in Whiterun since the fall of Dragonsreach to Ulfric's forces had become a bit dodgy.

That is, one had to do a bit of actual dodging while in The Bannered Mare, espeically if one were trying to mind one's own business while seated at the far corner table, alone, enjoying a drink.

"Speaking of," he muttered, lifitng a tankard of cold mead to his lips and shifting his upper half to his left by inches. A clay mug burst into shards and foam on the wood panel very near where his head had been, followed by riotous, drunken laughter and the start of another verse of Age of Oppression. In true Nordic fashion, it was delivered nowhere remotely near on-key and supplemented with colorful metaphors that had grown more blashphemous as the night wore on.

It was positively delightful.

Not that he could begrudge the Stormcloak patrons their fun, even if he weren't the patron Daedra of sin and excess. Those boys had certainly earned a brief reprieve from the war, and were this any other night, he might've joined in the festivities.

A faint smile lifted his lips as he let his empty tankard rest on the table, palming his scruffy chin and staring off into space. He might still, yet, if his client arrived on time.

"I want you," a firm but decidedly feminine voice called loudly, "and _you_, outside-now!"

That snapped him to attention. Sitting bolt upright, he took in the other tavern patrons again. The celebratory atmosphere had been sucked from the room as if by some sort of vampire. A_ party_ vampire, he decided internally, one dark brow inching high. He swallowed hard. That was the worst kind of vampire.

But the figure for whom the sea of blue cloaks parted was not dressed appropriately for vampirism. Instead of the requisite black and red palette, it wore a more natural grey and mottled brown scheme, against which long auburn hair smoldered. Instead of a flowing silk poet's shirt and lace ruffles, it wore a sensible chainmail coat, cinched at the waist by a broad studded leather girdle. The shoes were certainly all wrong; stub-nosed and hardened, caked with mud.

Most importantly, he noted, the figure was definitely not pale and willowy. It was curved and visibly female, despite efforts to hide it beneath layers of protective chain and leather. Her skin was flushed, tanned to a pleasant golden glow, with rosy, full lips that managed to charm even when scowling. Which, from personal observations, seemed to be her default facial setting.

He smiled involuntarily at the sight of her. "Lady Mhairead," he murmured in greeting as she approached the table, standing and offering to pull out a chair for her. "So nice to see you again."

"Sam Guevenne, if I recall correctly," she said in return, nodding at him, sounding somewhat less enthusiastic about the reunion than he. Slipping off her gauntlets and tucking them into her belt pouch, she stuck out a hand, face impassive. "Breton, visiting various holds on business for your family back in High Rock."

"You recall correctly, dear lady." She remained impassive even when he flipped that hand and planted a light kiss over the pulse at her wrist, but pulled her limb back rather sharply. He didn't miss the flash of-disapproval? Panic?-in her pale eyes, no matter how quickly she could compose herself. Sam merely lifted his hands defensively and smiled, sliding back into his seat. He gestured back to the open chair he'd pulled out for her, still without a body to occupy it. "It's been...what? Two months since I've seen you last?"

"Two months, eleven days," she confirmed, folding her arms protectively across her chest. Her stance shifted, chin tilted-subconciously readying for an assault, he'd wager. "The Dead Man's Drink, just after our forces liberated Falkreath."

Sam nodded, lacing his fingers behind his head and grinning up at her. "Been too long anyways," he chuckled. "You still haven't told me yes or no."

Mhairead blinked. "Regarding what? You're certainly not about to suggest another drinking contest."

He hefted his tankard, suddenly full to the brim with sweet-scented mead, cold and crisp as an autumn morning. "Darlin', we never got to have a first! Come on, pull up a chair. I'll go first. Give ya a lead." He winked.

"I'm afraid I'm on duty, Mister Guevenne. I'll have to decline."

He set the tankard down slowly, sobering somewhat. "Y'mean you got stuck doin' guard duty? After ya went and won yer boss how many holds?"

"Yes, sir. Stormcloak presence isn't always viewed as positive by the existing population. It's my duty as ranking officer to ensure our men behave in a civil manner at all times." As if expecting the other patrons to provide her with an example, Mhairead glanced back over her shoulder.

"Oh, I get it, I really do," Sam said, clearing his throat. He shrugged a shoulder when he had her attention again. "Got to appear sober and ready for anything. But y'know, your men aren't going judge you at all for letting go just this one time and tossing back a little of Uncle Sam's special brew."

The smaller Breton sighed, pinching her nose. "For the last time, no."

A small pang of anxiety bloomed in his stomach, and Sam was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "Please? Come on, just one!" He put on his best smile, aiming the handle of his tankard towards her palm and thrusting. "It's on me." And he'd be damned if he was waiting another two months for her to step foot in a tavern.

At about the same time, Mhairead moved to check the entrance, craning her neck while on tiptoes, and pointed in exactly the wrong direction to see the tankard. She avoided his offer, again, without even registering that it'd been made in the first place. "It will be _on_ you in a moment if you continue to interfere with my duties, citizen," she said curtly, blindly pulling on her gauntlets again. Her eyes locked on a pair of Nords near the tavern entrance, surrounded by cheering compatriots. Septims glinted in the candlelight. "If you'll excuse me." With that, she gave her auburn hair a toss, and strode with purpose towards where the men were beginning to take a few poorly-aimed swings at one another.

He could only remain frozen and stare after her, an empty feeling of defeat vying with anger and frustration at having been blown off, again. He plopped back into his seat.

Gods, the woman was so uptight, he was surprised she'd managed five minutes at The Bannered Mare without her pretty head simply popping off in a fountain of blood. To be honest with himself, he was fairly impressed with her professionalism in the face of chaos thus far, but wondered exactly how long the little mortal girl could maintain her detachment from the situation. Especially when the situation was being helped along.

"No, I don't care _who_ bet _whom_ how many septims, you're both leaving-_now_," her voice carried back to him. A stern gauntleted finger jammed towards the exit, her other fist at her hip as she stared the two men down. "Whiterun has enough trouble on its hands without you two behaving like children. Get back to the barracks, on the double!" As the brawlers lumbered outside, Mhairead rounded on the rest of the Stormcloak revelers, steely eyes sharp and voice commanding. "While I'm at it, I'll have the lot of you back at barracks as well." The men and handful of women soldiers exchanged sullen glances, and for the most part, everyone quieted down, started tidying up and began to file outside in an orderly fashion.

Everyone except for a particularly burly fellow with a head of curly brown hair, left waiting for what should've been his payout from the brawl. He lingered near the counter, scrubbing through his hair with a sudden look of confusion, wrinkling a nose that'd previously been broken. "Hey," he drawled, blinking deliberately and frowning, "I ain't got my money." Pulling both his wits together, he repeated, "My money. Ain't got it," more forcefully, levelling his stare at Mhairead.

"Sorry, what?" she breathed as the much taller Nord towered over her.

Sam smiled, kicking his chair back to rest against the wall, watching as the compulsion spell went to work. Oh, this was gonna be good.

"You gonna pay me what they owed me, or what?" the soldier demanded, voice like gravel. His breath ruffled Mhairead's hair, which from the face she made, must've smelled as nice as he looked. "Well?" Knuckles were cracked in a threatening manner that the little Breton obviously didn't appreaciate, but it took the man actually reaching out and taking hold of her wrist to make her snap.

A swift knee to the soldier's groin weakened his hold on her wrist, allowing Mhairead to twist free and swing her balled fist back. Narrowing an eye as she aimed, her fist connected with a audiable pop. A few stragglers hovered anxiously near the doors, goggle-eyed, as the Nord crumpled to the floor behind her. She shook her fist out gingerly, gesturing with mouth and brows drawn tight, for one of the spectators to clear the unconcious Stormcloak out of there. One could swear the floorboards reverberated as she shouted, "The tavern is closed, gentlemen. _Good NIGHT!_"

And just like that, the party was over. The plump innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief as the doors creaked closed, ceasing her nervous counter scrubbing to massage her weary brow. The Breton officer's hand touched hers lightly, Mhairead's expression sympathetic as she exchanged a few soothing words with the shaken woman.

Sam couldn't help trying to overhear them, crooked grin forming on his lips, but his senses were dreadfully limited in this form. From all appearances though, he'd chosen to target a woman bound and determined to play mother to all of Skyrim, and just as his brain set itself to imagining several disciplinary techniques he could teach her, in very graphic, lifelike detail, a shadow fell over him. He tipped his face up, tankard clutched to his chest as he blinked at Mhairead, standing at his elbow. "You're...You're back." She's back! And before he could think of something more witty and engaging to follow that up with, another compulsion spell was readied, somewhat weaker than before. No reason to make the choice for her.

"Yes, I'm back," Mhairead replied, unimpressed by his grasp on the obvious. After a thoughtful pause, her face relaxed into a light frown, brow wrinkled as she allowed herself a brief moment of ease. "I...I apologize, that must have seemed rude," she murmured, chin down.

"Uh...what? Oh! Nah. Yer dealin' with a rough crowd tonight, I understand completely, darlin'."

"Thanks." She rubbed the back of her neck, tilting her head and looking slightly sheepish. "Ah...you don't still have that drink, do you?" she asked quietly.

Sam's mouth twitched. This was it.

"Why, yes," he drawled, lip curled in a grin as he proffered his special tankard, "yes I do."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who took time to read, and those who took time to review the first bit of story. It wasn't much to review yet, but the comments are encouraging and I'll try to turn this thing into a...well, a thing. I'm still trying to find character voices, so bear with me, and until I can find a regular schedule to post on, I may end up posting something that I'm not 100% satisfied with. But then again, I'm riddled with OCD and can't be satisfied with anything I write.

Anyways, this chapter is essentially done. I will take liberties with the actual quest line of "A Night To Remember", but I'm going to try to reflect what happened with my actual playthrough as Mhairead (or what should have happened since I saved Fjotra first).

* * *

On a grassy lawn beneath a weathered old oak tree, Mhairead sat. Stars competed with torchbugs floating lazily around the glen, spun about by a warm summer's breeze, while a small stream bubbled happily past her bare feet. From somewhere beyond the treeline, the soothing chords of a lute played. Every muscle in her body was relaxed, every anxious thought stilled even though she couldn't quite recall where she was or how she got there.

If she didn't know better, she'd guess Sovngarde. But the name hardly mattered. What mattered was just how peaceful she felt, for the first time in years.

Tankard still clutched in one hand, she reached out to skim the water's surface with her fingertips. Her head tilted curiously, rubbing forefinger and thumb together at eye level. Both were stained a viscous red.

No. Not water. This is...

Mhairead experiementally brushed her thumb across her bottom lip, tongue met with a slight numbing sensation and the flavor of honeyed blackcurrant.

"Wine?" came a rich, amused chuckle. "Told ya so."

Her head whipped right, unaware she'd spoken out loud.

Near to her, settled back against the tree trunk, sat a being encased in overwrought ebony armor, his skin lighter only by degrees and decorated with complex spirals and arcs of crimson. Well-kept dark hair swept back around and between a pair of polished horns. His teeth were slightly pointed and unnaturally white as his lips pulled back in a smile. And his _eyes_.

They were bottomless. And she could sit and study them for hours, eternity even, if she'd let herself. Mhairead shook herself, looking down to avert her gaze. A mistake on her part really, because before she realized she had company, she was perfectly content to wear nothing at all. Actually, she hadn't realized..._oh gods_. Mhairead's face flushed to match the stains on her fingertips, quickly moving to cover her exposed chest.

The daedra, she supposed at this point, remained unnaffected by her state of undress and reached down at his side to pat a shaggy, run-of-the-mill farm goat, who lounged comfortably and chewed at the grass. "Y'know," he sighed, "we should do this again sometime." And to her horror, he twisted to deliberately lock eyes with her again, smile taking on a suggestive leer. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the wind. "You're really..._really_ fun to drink with."

* * *

"Lady Mhairead..?"

At the touch to her bare shoulder, she gave her eyes a tight squeeze, rolling onto her other side with a soft moan of protest. Groping about her knees, Mhairead concluded she must've kicked her blankets off sometime in the night, and curled into a ball to conserve warmth. The loss of her blankets probably occurred about the same time she'd started dreaming. She huffed at the faint, nonsensical images that surfaced, frowning, and prepared to return to sleep.

"Lady Mhairead..! Senna, fetch the other lamp, just there...thank you. We'll need to check her eyes...and fill a bucket, please."

Sudden light near her eyelids and careful fingers prying them apart only annoyed her. It was being doused with ice-cold spring water that finally jolted Mhairead back to wakefulness.

"Ah! There we are," the elderly priestess crouched at her side announced as the Stormcloak sat up and sputtered, looking very much like a drowned cat. "Awake and alert, safe and sound," she said, singsong, handing her lamp off momentarily to wrap a simple robe around her, stemming the chill.

One of the five robed figures that huddled around them in concern began to clap, smiling jubilantly. The other four stared blankly at her until she stopped, her smile fading.

Mhairead took a minute to squint through dimly lit space at her surroundings, biting down on her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. While her body slowly recovered from such a rude awakening, her mind was hard at work piecing together where she was. The investigator in her picked out nearby likenesses of the goddess Dibella, carved into the nearby stone basin, and similar female images cast in precious metals sitting atop brocade-padded altars. Dibellan temple, she concluded. Rubbing at a knot in her neck, she looked up at the faces of each woman in turn, and names soon began emerging from the fog. "An-Anwen," Mhairead said softly, nodding politely at each as she named them, "Senna, Orla, M-Mother H-Hamal," and the elder at her side smiled reservedly, but kindly. That only left one other Sister of Dibella unaccounted for, if she had got her bearings straight.

"Mhairead," the smallest of the priestesses, no older than twelve, called her name and rushed to take her in a hug.

"Fjotra," Mhairead sighed, half-smiling as she pat the girl on the head, using her free hand to cinch the robe closed at her chest. Relief washed over her.

"Sybil," the Mother Hamal corrected, clearing her throat.

Mhairead extricated herself from the Sybil of Dibella, grasping the girl's elbow gently and smiling sadly. "My Lady _Sybil_," she amended, looking Fjotra over. The girl had grown a few inches taller and put on a few badly needed pounds since she'd last stepped foot in the temple at Markarth. Doe eyes no longer appeared sunken, and her brown hair had been worked into intricate braids. If ever Mhairead needed a reason to continue in her line of work, it was people like her. "My apologies."

Fjotra's youthful face was etched with confusion as she looked back at Mhairead. "What are you doing here?"

Glancing around again, Mhairead chuckled. Just like a child to cut straight to the point, conduit to a goddess or no. "I...was sort of hoping you could tell me the same thing, actually," she replied with a poorly disguised shiver, then added, "Apart from, 'on the floor, in soaking wet underclothes'," with a lopsided, hopeless smile. That elicited a guffaw from one of the priestesses.

Mother Hamal swung her oil lamp around, glaring. "Gwen," she intoned warningly, finger to her lips. Which is all it took to make the well-rounded young woman hovering behind Senna and Anwen clamp her mouth shut, but her eyes were still laughing.

Gwen? Mhairead kneaded her brow, wondering simultaneously whether her headache would ever go away and if there'd been a Sister Gwen around when she'd rescued Fjotra from the Forsworn. Granted, it'd been a good while since then and Mother Hamal might've changed her mind about the no-new-sisters rule now that Fjotra had replaced the old sybil, but-

"We...We don't know," Fjotra answered at length, voice small and wavering.

Mhairead blinked, noting the way the young girl's eyes refocused. 'We' must've meant more than just the women assembled there. "It's alright, Lady Sybil," she said, trying to make her smile reassuring as she picked herself up off the temple floor, slipping her borrowed robe on properly and tying it shut, "I'm not hurt, at any rate, right?" Fjotra just nodded, brightening a little. "Right," Mhairead sighed, clasping hands together and mentally summing up her current situation. "So...this is Markarth, and I last remember being in Whiterun, at the Bannered Mare."

More than a few brows raised. "Whiterun? That's more than a day's ride from here," Anwen remarked. "And it was just before dawn when the sybil came to wake us."

Senna looked over at Fjotra. "She said she heard a noise from the foyer. Naturally we suspected another robbery attempt, but instead..." She finished with a gesture that took in all of Mhairead's half-naked glory, mouth slightly twisted in distaste. She never was very pleasant and so help her, Mhairead almost couldn't care less as to why. But there was a constant nagging urge to go prying into her past. Habitual, she concluded.

"Well, I'm glad Dibella is apparently looking out for me," Mhairead said, voice low enough that only Fjotra could really catch it all, giving the girl another fond pat on the head. Much to Mother Hamal's disapproval. "I'll have to stop by more often and pay my respects, when this war is over. But," she drew a breath, apologetic smile returning, "I've got to find some clothes and get back to my post. Fast."

An overly-sweet, "I take it you do plan on at least cleaning up after yourself before you say goodbye?" suddenly came from Mother Hamal, who folded her arms and looked to the Stormcloak expectantly.

For the first time since her eyes adjusted to the lamplight, Mhairead followed the Mother's line of sight into the foyer beyond, and gaped.

The lengthy, awkward silence was finally cut by a whispered, "Well don't look at _me_," from Sister Gwen. "I'm not picking this up."

On cue, Senna offered Mhairead a broom.

* * *

Three hours had passed since she'd started cleaning, and she still hadn't made a dent in it.

Perhaps it was the overwhelming need to hold each bit of evidence in her hands and turn it over, repeatedly, until she'd gleaned some useful information from it. At that rate, one could spend several days cateloguing and analyzing everything that'd been defaced in the temple, but that's the sort of thing she'd been doing for years while working for Ulfric's Stormcloaks.

It was simply necessary for her to process things she couldn't understand at first glance.

The state of the temple, for example. It didn't seem like random vandalism. An offertory bowl made into a chicken's nest. The basin of holy water defiled, used to chill bottles of Honningbrew Mead. Severed giants' toes strategically positioned beneath the robes of one full-bodied statue to look like actual, but comically deformed, feet. Curly, exaggerated moustaches drawn on every bust in careful strokes of charcoal pencil.

Someone had a bone to pick with the Dibellan sisters, but wasn't as vicious in the act as they were methodical, or wickedly humorous. This vandal had _layers, _thought Mhairead, picking up a copy of an illustrated instruction manual laying open on the floor. Eyeing the title with disdain, she felt her cheeks color. To her relief, the perpetrator had taken care to draw clothing on the figures shown in various sex acts. A few even had lines of mundane-sounding dialogue scribbled nearby, such as 'Decent weather we're having', or 'Is that a new hat?'

Someone giggled audiably. It took her a moment to realize it was herself. Embarrassed, she set the book aside with other discarded tomes to be filed later, and discovered a slip of paper had fallen to the floor as she'd leafed through the defaced book. Reading as she picked it up, "To repair the broken staff: Giant's toe, hagraven feathers," Mhairead suddenly remembered picking up the very same articles earlier that morning. The last item on the list was obvious; "Holy water." The Dibellan's fountain was a logical and ready supply of it, if one weren't picky about whom it was holy for. But it was the signature at the bottom that made her gray eyes narrow.

"Sam," she ground out, a muscle in her cheek twitching as she dropped her hand to her side. Last night. The Mare. The stupid, stupid homemade brew he kept pushing. "I know where to start," she said to herself in quiet resolve, leaning her broom against the nearest stone pillar. Her work here was done. Now all she needed to do was convince Mother Hamal to lend her a proper pair of trousers and talk her way into getting a wagon ride back to Whiterun-

Movement from the shadows ahead startled Mhairead, interrupting her determined walk down the hallway.

"It's you," she sighed, rubbing her forehead. Her subordinates would have laughed to see her so nervous. "Sister Gwen, was it?"

Gwen moved from around the pillar ahead, hands clasped at her generous backside and a wide, pleasant smile splitting her round face. "Yess'm. Sorry if I scared you." The ensuing giggle convinced Mhairead of the very opposite.

"I was not scared," she insisted, straightening the ill-fitting robe over her frame.

"Then why were you running away?" Gwen asked, blinking. Then before Mhairead could formulate a response, she bat her lashes coyly. "Ohh, you were gonna take off and leave all the rest of this mess to us, weren't ya?"

This was ridiculous. "What? I...no, I wasn't..." Mhairead stopped, and tried again. "I don't 'run away'," she stated, "and neither was I intending on leaving things unfinished here. I am a soldier, and I'm sure even you can appreciate the concept of duty and obligation to-"

"It's fine!" Gwen interrupted. "I was thinking of skipping out on the sisters, too."

Mhairead lost her line of thought entirely then. "...you're going to give up your duty as a priestess?" she finally asked, brow raised.

"It's that Senna woman," Gwen spat, "and how Mother Hamal goes on about how wonderful a student she is, how graceful and pretty and why can't the rest of us be like her. I've only been here a few weeks and I'm already tired of it. Serving Dibella isn't what I thought it'd be like, you know?"

No, she didn't know. But she nodded anyways.

"Hey!" And here Gwen's eyes took on a dangerous twinkle, "I've got it. You and I can leave right now."

Mhairead's expression remained impassive. "I think I can handle myself."

"No no, hear me out! See, I managed to smuggle a bunch of stuff past the other sisters when I first got here. They take away all your earthly posessions when you first come here, you know that? Anyways, it's all good stuff. Clothes, money, that sort of thing. Enough to get us to Rorikstead, anyways. That's much closer to Whiterun than Markarth." Gwen grinned. "And, it saves you from having to weasel past Senna to get to Mother Hamal's office, right?"

At first, Mhairead was understandably skeptical of this plan. She was still skeptical of this plan. It wasn't until the soon-to-be-former-priestess uttered the name Senna that she decided that, perhaps, leaving a politely-worded letter of apology was acceptable in this one instance. She could easily afford to donate to the temple when she returned to Markarth. Yes, that would work brilliantly. She nodded. "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thank you for taking time to read my story. I value reviews, both supportive and constructive, so feel free to leave a note. I've a general idea of where this train is going, but that doesn't mean I can't get sidetracked by inspiration.

Apologies to those who start this chapter confused. OCD struck and I had to improve the last chapter. If nothing else, it's more to read, right? ...right?

* * *

It would've been so easy just to leave her there.

Leave her there, on the floor, passed out from exhaustion and mumbling incoherently for the Sisters of Dibella to discover the next morning, next to some lockpicks and a busted front door.

Just walk away, portal back to one of a thousand pocket realms, pour himself some brandy and have a good laugh at the uptight Stormcloak's expense. She had it coming, really. Ever since she snubbed him back in Falkreath.

But no. No, there was something familiar about the scene as Mhairead lay on the cold, granite temple floor, features softening as sleep took her, that tickled the back of his brain. For the first time in a long while, he experienced an unnerving feeling of deja vu. Sanguine shook his head vehemently, the Breton illusion he wore falling from him.

There'd been many, many people who'd swallowed the old drinking contest line, and this one wouldn't be the last. Of course this felt familiar.

With a self-satisfied sigh, Sanguine took in the temple's state of disarray, scratching his chin with one armored fingertip. He'd wanted to redecorate for Dibella for quite some time, but never had the occasion to. His gaze fell from one statue, carefully honeyed and feathered, to the peacefully slumbering mortal girl at his feet. Humans always said the most interesting things while under the influence of alcohol, and mention of her past service to the temple had immediately made his To Do list.

And, it didn't hurt that she knew how to draw worth a damn. Her idea about censoring all the books, the gleam in her eyes when she murmured to him, clutching the worst of the lot to her chest in breathless anticipation of some good old fashioned fun? Priceless.

"Thanks for that, darlin'," he said with a chuckle, reaching down to carefully part the auburn hair obscuring her face. "Y'make a great drinkin' buddy." To his mild surprise, she shivered. Following his touch, Mhairead rolled onto her side and arranged herself into a comfortable position.

Sanguine paused, arm still outstretched towards her, head to one side.

He momentarily wondered if he shouldn't at least leave her with a blanket.

But before he could either decide 'yes' on the blanket, or realize the significance of he was debating in the first place, he caught the echo of footsteps and hushed, but alarmed speech, coming from beyond the foyer. Glancing back down at Mhairead, then around one last time to admire his-their-handiwork, Sanguine smiled to himself.

No. He couldn't just leave her there, he decided at last.

* * *

Several magically-implanted suggestions and carefully doctored temple documents later, and Sister Gwen was born. A lot of hassle, when he thought about it, since the only time he'd ever need Gwen as a cover was right then. He could've at least made her leave of absence from the temple plausible, in case he wanted to infiltrate them again later to cause more moustachioed mischief, but alas. In his own words, he wasn't the greatest decision maker in history.

So, after watching and thoroughly enjoying the fallout from the new decor, he decided his newest minion might be worth tagging along with. Not that she was aware of her minion status, of course. Not yet.

Gwen smiled across the wagon at Mhairead, fingers laced behind her head, one leg crossed, swaying side-to-side with the carriage's motion. The red-headed Breton kept her chin on a fist, watching the scenery roll past, oblivious.

Maybe not ever, he mused.

Some mortals had had an...adverse reaction to the news that, hey, surprise! I'm really an ancient Daedric lord, and you've been unwittingly doing my bidding for the past several months. Some of them took it quite well. Too well, in fact. And again citing his lack of decisive skills, Sanguine thought that perhaps, just this once, he'd take a more hands-off approach to grooming his acolyte in this century. No appearing in gouts of flame, no mysterious whispers at night, just hanging around and watching what happens.

Well. Maybe nudging things here and there. When appropriate. But what better choice of champion could he make than this one? Smart, strong, upstanding in her community.

Nobody would see it coming.

"You need something, sister?"

Gwen blinked repeatedly, finding herself suddenly confronted with an overly-concerned Mhairead. "Hm? Oh! Oh, no, no dar-deary." Nice save, there.

Mhairead regarded Gwen dubiously, folding her arms beneath her chest and looking at her square-on, raising a brow at the term of endearment. "You're quite certain? You're not feeling ill, are you..?"

"Should I be?" Gwen asked, for once, honest. He hadn't any idea whether one could become ill just from sitting in a wagon.

Mhairead nodded, slowly. "Motion sickness isn't entirely uncommon."

"Then, yes," Gwen said, lifting her chin, "yes, I am very ill." It was a terribly mortal and female behavior, that. He took some pride in duplicating it.

Rolling her eyes, Mhairead gestured for Gwen's hand. "Here, this may help somewhat," she said, gesturing again when Gwen didn't respond immediately.

Gwen wasn't sure what the Breton was up to, but relinquished a hand anyways. She was almost disappointed at first when Mhairead began to gently knead at the flesh between thumb and forefinger, working down to the wrist and applying pressure.

Mhairead nodded towards the floorboards. "Should probably lay down for a while as well," she murmured, ceasing her ministrations to bundle up some of the spare clothing they'd recovered from the temple. When Gwen complied, she tucked the bundle beneath her head, resuming her hand massage.

This was one of the more bizarre situations Sanguine had been in in recent memory, but even as he thought about it, he couldn't stop looking up at her, looking down at him, trying to soothe him. And doing a fair job of it, too.

Gods, was this weird. And he knew Sheogorath. Now that man was weird.

Mhairead smiled faintly down at Gwen. "Feeling better, sister?"

"Yeah," Gwen replied, sounding distant. "Might've felt worse than I thought. Funny, huh?"

"Sometimes we convince ourselves that we're fine when we're really not," Mhairead said, shrugging. "People do it all the time."


End file.
